


Thanksgiving, 2002

by JJK



Series: Life, Interrupted [11]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Kissing, M/M, Mild Angst, Thanksgiving, Time Travel, argumentative idiots, time travller's wife au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-03 11:44:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK/pseuds/JJK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My Mother wants us home for Thanksgiving.”<br/>Grantaire snorted. “No.”<br/>“Grantaire – ”<br/>“<i>Hell</i> no. Don’t you remember what happened last time?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Turns up to Thanksgiving fifteen minutes late with a starbucks and an outmoded joke. (It might have been a good idea to have started writing this before the actual day...) anyway, I hope everyone who celebrated it had a lovely long weekend :)

_Thanksgiving, 2002 (Enjolras is 27, Grantaire is 30)_

Shifting the bag of groceries to rest more comfortably in the crook of his elbow, Grantaire unlocked the front door and stepped through, calling out a ‘hello’ as he went. Attacked by a sudden craving for apple pie, he’d stopped at the corner shop on his way home from the library and planned to spend the afternoon baking. Unable to paint for most of the summer, he’d found his culinary skills not impeded by the switch to left handed-ness, and grown quite fond of producing ridiculous dishes that filled the kitchen with smells even Enjolras couldn’t ignore; pulling his overworked form away from his desk to investigate. It was one of the only ways Grantaire was succeeding it grabbing his attention any more, especially since he’d been made junior partner – a feat practically unheard of for anyone his age. Although as far as Grantaire could tell, all it meant was more work, longer hours and increased stress. 

He pushed the door closed and waited a beat to catch Enjolras’ response. When he heard it filtering through from the kitchen his expression pulled into a frown. Spinning the key ring round his index finger, he moved down the hallway and poked his head into the kitchen, doing nothing to hide his confused expression. 

“What’s happened?” 

Enjolras stopped typing and looked up from his laptop. 

“What makes you think something’s happened?” 

Grantaire placed the bag on the counter before replying. “You never sit in the kitchen,” he said, turning back to Enjolras with a raised eyebrow. Enjolras began to dissent, but Grantaire shook his head and continued, picking the eggs out of the bag and carrying them to the fridge as he did. “Not instinctively. You sit in the lounge, or the study – or even in bed. You only sit in the kitchen when you’re waiting for me.” 

He couldn’t see Enjolras’ slight gape behind him, but he could imagine it and it was enough to make him chuckle. Sure enough when he closed the fridge door, Enjolras was sat staring, jaw slightly slack. 

“And seeing as I didn’t Travel,” he plucked the sugar from the bag and shoved it into the cupboard above him. “You must waiting to tell me something. Ergo,” he waved a bag of apples at Enjolras, “something happened.” 

Enjolras closed the lid of his laptop and brought his hands together to rest on top of it. “My Mother wants us home for Thanksgiving.” 

Grantaire snorted. “No.” 

“Grantaire – ” 

“ _Hell_ no. Don’t you remember what happened last time?” 

“It won’t be like last time.” Even Enjolras couldn’t sound sure, which was saying something. 

“No.” Grantaire resisted the urge to slam the apples down on the counter; they’d only bruise and then he’d be even more annoyed. He placed them gently on the side, hooking a finger into the plastic packing and gently tearing it open. With slow deliberate movements he placed them into the fruit bowl, arranged around the oranges and bananas and lone red apple which remained from the last shopping trip. He watched the light bounce of the shiny pale green skin, studying the colours and reflection. If he focused on memorising the texture and the quality which made it gleam, then he just might be able to block out the memories which were crowding his mind; memories of the nightmare and the humiliation which had his neck burning with just the recollection. It was something he hoped never to relive. It was something they’d agreed would never happen again. 

“We agreed.” He hissed after the silence had stretched to an uncomfortable length. “And besides, we already promised the guys we’d host Thanksgiving here this year.” He said, trying desperately to keep things light. “We’re going to burn the kitchen down cooking a turkey with all the trimmings, remember? And then order take out it inevitably fails. Courf’s _really_ excited about making the cranberry sauce; I hear he’s been practising for weeks. You don’t want to take that away from him now do you?” 

“ _Grantaire_ , they’re my parents.” 

“And they hate me.” 

“They don’t hate you.” 

“No, you’re right. To hate me they’d have to actually acknowledge my existence.” He picked up an apple and stomped from the room, making a point of ignoring whatever face Enjolras would be pulling at him. He had a horrible feeling it would that little disappointed frown and he couldn’t cope that just then. 

“Grantaire!” 

Without bothering to check if he’d picked up his keys he pulled the door open and stormed outside, giving it a good slam behind him for good measure. 

The air was a brisk 35°F with weak pockets of sunshine poking through the thick woollen clouds and he was more than happy to step back out into it. Taking a bite from the apple, he stuffed his free hand into his pocket and started to walk. He had no idea where he was going and quite frankly he didn’t care. He didn’t even really care if Enjolras came running after him, although as time wore on and he wasn’t tackled by vision of blonde, he couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. 

He flicked his apple core into the gutter, where it sank into a pile of leaves, and propped himself against a wall a few blocks from their house. Even though they’d lived here for almost a year now, he still wasn’t completely familiar with the neighbourhood, not this side of it at any rate. He’d be able to pin point himself on a map – a matter of necessity - but it was different seeing it in person. He suddenly wished he’d brought his sketch book with him. 

As it was, without anything to distract himself he was forced to confront the thoughts chasing each other round his mind. Was he being ridiculous? Was he blowing this out of proportion? Had it really been that bad? The answer was yes, yes it really had. He knocked his head back and exhaled deeply. Still, it was four years ago. Four years; he still couldn’t quite comprehend it. Four years, with Enjolras. And by some undeserved miracle, a prospect of many more to come; that was if he didn’t mess things up by being petulant and selfish. They were Enjolras’ parents, he’d just made partner - of course they’d want him home for Thanksgiving. He sighed and kicked the pavement; he could suck it up for a weekend. God knows he’d been stuck in worse situations for longer. Besides, they’d have to get used to idea of him at some point. 

= 

It turned out he hadn’t remembered to swipe his keys off the side, and whilst it wasn’t beyond him to break in, he hardly felt it would start an apology off on the right foot. 

When Enjolras finally opened the door, he leant onto the door frame and folded his arms; effectively preventing Grantaire from stepping through into the house. 

“Hello,” Grantaire smiled, feeling instantly foolish for having stormed out. He expected Enjolras to admonish him and for the argument to pick right back up. 

But instead Enjolras said softly, “I didn’t know if you wanted me to come after you.” 

His head was tipped back against the jamb, hair loose and falling back from his face, jaw thrown out and neck elongated. It was unfair, Grantaire thought, drawn to the way his adam’s apple bobbed as he spoke and the lines of his neck were drawn into a taught v, that such a simple inclination of his head could look so good. 

“I didn’t know either.” 

“It looked like you needed some time to cool off.” 

“Yeah, I,” he scratched his shoulder, absently. But before he could unjumble his thoughts into a coherent and adequate expression, Enjolras pushed himself off the wall and dragged Grantaire inside. 

“I love you,” Enjolras said, closing the door and bracketing Grantaire against the wall. “and I’m sorry.” 

“An apology? I never thought I see the day,” Grantaire smirked, because he was an idiot and he never knew when to keep his mouth shut. Thankfully Enjolras didn’t rise to it, and Grantaire was so grateful that he didn’t. 

“If you really don’t want to go, then we won’t. But they are my parents, for all their flaws.” Enjolras continued, as if nothing else had been said. 

“I know.” Grantaire muttered. 

“And we can’t ignore them forever,” 

Grantaire looked away, closing his eyes and swallowing the argument building on his tongue. “But they can’t ignore you either.” 

He flicked back to Enjolras, a smile creeping slowly back across his face. 

“Alright. We’ll go. It’s not like it could be any worse than last time, right?” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah.” His face broke into a smile. “Besides, if Courfeyrac’s cooking, we’re probably best running for our lives anyway – ” 

Enjolras leaned in, pushing their bodies flush, trapping Grantaire against the wall and stopping him mid-sentence. “Shut up,” he growled against Grantaire’s lips, before chasing it with a kiss. 

“Make me,” Grantaire grinned back, propelling himself off to wall to slot against Enjolras. His hands caressed the span of Enjolras’ back, one holding them close, the other teasing with the hem of his shirt. Enjolras bucked his hips slightly, in response, pinning Grantaire into the wall. His breath hitched and he dived forwards to kiss with greater intensity. 

They bobbed and weaved with a familiar rhythm, dancing between playful and tender. Enjolras’ hands left the wall to flit across Grantaire’s collar bones, down his shoulders, briefly griping his arms, dragging across his throat, carding through his hair. 

He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed this, how long it had been. 

Grantaire moaned as Enjolras pulled away to kiss his temple, his cheek, along his jawline. He wrapped a hand round the base of Grantaire’s neck and tangled his hand in the inky curls. With a sudden tug he pulled Grantaire’s head back to rest against the wall with a dull thud, exposing his throat. When he dragged his tongue up the expanse, bristling against the stubble and gliding over his Adam’s apple, it went straight to Grantaire’s cock. He groaned, fighting against the hand in his hair to bring his lips back to Enjolras and resume the kiss with a desperate urgency. 

“Fu-uuck,” he growled. “You realise I already agreed, don’t you?” he asked breathlessly, as Enjolras’ shifted his hips to drag their erections against each other. 

“I’m showing my gratitude,” he replied into the curve of Grantaire’s neck, nipping against it playfully. 

“Uh-huh,” he arched his back, hands fisting into the material of Enjolras’ shirt as Enjolras dragged his teeth across Grantaire’s collar bone. “If I’d know this was on the table, I’d have agreed sooner.” 

“I’ll remember that,” Enjolras smirked, head rising to meet Grantaire’s once more. 

“Please do.” He managed to grin in return before Enjolras pounced once more. 

Pinned against the wall, being kissed to within an inch of his sanity, Grantaire was reduced to drinking Enjolras in; feeling like the luckiest man alive. If one traumatic weekend with the not-quite In Laws was the price to pay for this? He supposed he couldn’t argue with that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When your mother said she wanted ‘us’ home for thanksgiving,” Grantaire asked, slumping on the bed in Enjolras’ childhood bedroom and dropped his head into his hands. “What exactly did she say? Because she seemed pretty surprised to see me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive the lateness of this chapter!

The car tyres crunched on the gravel, sweeping round the curve of the drive before coming to a stop before the house. The ridiculous house where Enjolras had grown up. 

“Christ,” Enjolras muttered, pulling the keys from the ignition and peering out through the front windshield. “I forgot how absurd it was.” 

Which was a little unfair, Grantaire thought as he unfolded himself from the vehicle and cast his eyes around the view. It was huge, yes, but beautiful. A sloping, gabled roof, slightly haphazard to accommodate the number of rooms – Grantaire had tried to count them last time her was here, but gave up around 24. Large windows, grey slate tiles and soft grey stone walls surrounded by winter barren trees and a smattering of snow. Ridiculous, yes; but not absurd. 

“Come on then, let’s get this over with.” Grantaire hauled their luggage from the boot and passed Enjolras the handle of his suitcase. Rather than heading for the steps leading up to the front door, however, Enjolras grabbed the wheeled his silver suitcase across the gravel – more carrying than wheeling it over the unyielding surface – around to the side gate. 

Confused, but not questioning, Grantaire followed with his own duffel bag slung over his shoulder. 

= 

“Enjolras!” Dita squealed with delight, throwing her hands up and allowing him to hug her, whilst keeping her own food covered hands far away from his clothes or hair. “It’s good to see you.” She leant to receive a kiss on each cheek once he released her from the hug, spotting Grantaire hovering by the kitchen door as she did. “And Grantaire, don’t hide back there. Come give me a hug,” 

He dropped his bag and dutifully crossed the kitchen to squeeze her gently. “Hi,” he chuckled as she squeezed back as much as was possible whilst keeping her hands angled away from him. 

“I’ve missed you – both of you. Four years is too long between visits.” She stepped back to admire them both, causing each of them to squirm slightly. 

Grantaire felt the back of his neck prickle with self-consciousness. 

“My handsome boys,” she concluded with a smile. Which was a little ridiculous, she’d only met Grantaire once before, but then - he glanced across to Enjolras. He supposed it would have been impossible for Enjolras to have kept him completely secret as a child. Especially when food a clothes kept disappearing. Actually, now that he came to think about it, the sandwiches and coffee that nine year old Enjolras had left out for him last time he Travelled to the meadow were a little _too good_. He flicked his eyes back to Dita who was just smiling at him. How long had she known? 

“Now, I’m very, very busy; Thanksgiving dinner for twenty four people doesn’t just cook itself.” 

“Twenty-Four?” Grantaire gaped. 

“Your mother didn’t tell you?” Dita asked Enjolras, eye brows piqued. 

“No.” he affirmed, thankfully looking as shocked at Grantaire felt. For a small second he was worried he’d been tricked into attending a party. If Enjolras had also been duped then he supposed he couldn’t feel so bad. 

Dita could only laugh, shoulders shaking and stomach bouncing slightly beneath her apron. “Your mother is something else isn’t she?” although that was apparently all she would say on the matter, no matter how much Enjolras tried to pry from her. It was actually impressive; Grantaire was going to have to ask for tips if he was ever going to survive the meadow without spoiling Enjolras’ entire future. 

“Mother?” Enjolras demanded marching down the corridor for the kitchen towards the hallway. The little wheels of his suitcase struggled to keep up with his urgent stride. They rattled on the polished tiles, screeching as he wheeled round a corner. Grantaire watching him go with a sigh. He liked Dita; couldn’t he stay with her in the kitchen? 

“Go,” she urged, with a mischievous smile, already back to rolling out a sheet of pastry. 

He sucked in a breath, before blowing it out theatrically, the stream of air kicking up the curls that fell into his eyes and dragged himself down the hall. Dita’s laughed followed him, bouncing off the walls and giving him the courage to keep moving forwards. 

It was always strange hearing Enjolras addressed by his first name. In all the time that Grantaire had known him, even as a kindergartener in the meadow, he’d only ever gone by Enjolras. So to hear his mother cooing over him, repeating his name and exclaiming how proud she was was slightly amusing. Of course when Grantaire stepped into the room and she stopped mid- sentence to stare at him, things weren’t very funny anymore. 

“Grantaire,” she managed to say, barely keeping the horror from her voice. “What a… pleasant surprise.” 

If Grantaire had been dripping with blood, or transformed into an enormous spider then he might have understood the look of terror in her eyes. As it was, the obviously forced smile and pleasantries were only confirming what a terrible idea it had been to come. 

= 

“When your mother said she wanted ‘us’ home for thanksgiving,” Grantaire asked, slumping on the bed in Enjolras’ childhood bedroom and dropped his head into his hands. “What exactly did she say? Because she seemed pretty surprised to see me.” 

“She said _you_.” Enjolras replied quietly, closing the door and keeping his palm splayed across the white painted wood for a beat. “We’ve been together for four years; I thought it would be pretty clear that the you meant ‘us’.” 

“Apparently not… I should go, shouldn’t I? What am I doing here?” he stood up, dragging a hand down his face. 

“No.” Enjolras startled across the room and caught his arm. “Stay. _I_ want you here.” 

Grantaire twisted to look at him, searching out the sincerity in his eyes. 

“Please,” he added in a whisper. Almost imploring. 

Grantaire melted, resolve dissolving from his shoulders. “Fine.” He grimaced, dragging a hand through his hair and staring out of the window. 

He surveyed the grey skies which melted into the dulled green of the grass, picking out the tops of the forest which bounded on the meadow, and the grassy knolls which dipped and swelled from where the organised, family garden ended. But he couldn’t see the tree, or the rock which marked their particular spot. Enjolras had assured him that it wasn’t visible from the house, but the confirmation was reassuring. Last time they’d been here he hadn’t thought to check. Last time there had been snow, and the meadow wasn’t known to him. Enjolras had mentioned it, sure, but his head had been spinning, too caught up with everything to really understand what was being said. 

Last time it had been made clear he wasn’t welcome, and apparently nothing much had changed since then. 

= 

As much as he moped around all afternoon, apparently dreading the ‘party’, Enjolras took to it like a duck to water; responding with smiles and answering the numerous questions thrown to him by all of his parents old friends, aunts, uncles and cousins with well faked interest. Grantaire, however, wasn’t faring so well. 

Being ignored he could cope with. Standing next to Enjolras, resplendent in tight fitting dark suit trousers and a crisp with shirt, with his blond curls practically gleaming, Grantaire expected nothing more. In fact he was using it to his advantage, retreating to a corner to nurse a tumbler of brandy was suiting him just fine. Though, whilst that was acceptable for the pre-dinner drinks reception, it apparently wouldn’t do for the actual meal. 

Alanna came to find him and dragged him, practically by the scruff of his collar, towards the dining room, frantically bringing him up to speed on the proper decorum expected of him – as if he was completely uncivilised, and adding a hissed, “I haven’t told anyone you’re together. Please don’t spoil the illusion,” as she released him. 

He stumbled forwards a few paces, straightening the bottle green dress shirt as he righted himself. Interestingly, he had no recollection of packing the shirt, and despite Enjolras swearing blind he hadn’t snuck it in either, the smile which had twitched across his lips as Grantaire dutifully buttoned it up told otherwise. 

The dining room was impressive, he didn’t deny it. A long table set for 24, with an enormous turkey taking centre stage, surrounded by an assortment of dishes brought by the guests to accompany those which Grantaire understood Dita to have been working on for weeks. To top it off, intricate flower-candle decorations interspersed the abundance of food, and each setting had a napkin folded into a swan. On Alanna’s orders, Grantaire had been folding them all afternoon, he was sure it was a form of passive aggressive punishment for daring to date her son. 

Of course Grantaire was seated as far away from Enjolras as physically possible. To make matters worse, they had been seated on the same side of the table which made it impossible to see him without conspicuously leaning forwards or backwards around the sea of well groomed heads. 

Once the pleasentries were over Enjolras’ father gave a toast to congratulate Enjolras on making partner and they were told to ‘dig in’, making conversation now well and truly inescapable. 

“Grantaire is it?” asked the elderly woman – Gladys according to her place setting – seated beside him. “And what is it that you do?” 

“Librarian.” He scooped some sweet potatoes onto his plate before offering the dish to her. 

“Please,” she smiled, making no move to take the plate or the serving spoon. After a mildly awkward beat he began to spoon some potato onto her plate, which was apparently what she’d been expecting. “Oh, that’s different.” 

Different to what, Grantaire wasn’t sure he wanted to ask. 

“So how do you know the Enjolras’s?” 

Grantaire glanced up to the head of the table tow where Alanna was sitting serenely; her hair coiled atop her head and a string of pearls brushing against her collar bones. 

“I live with their son,” he gulped; swapping the plate of peas he found himself holding for the slivers of turkey carvings now making the rounds. 

“That’s lovely,” she said, as Grantaire served out some turkey for her as well. “It’s nice to live with friends before you settle down. I shared a house with three girls before I got married. Oh the things we got up to!” she giggled slightly, and Grantaire couldn’t help but smile, even if his gut was twisting. 

He was about to ask what it was she did, or how she knew the Enjolras family, but she cut him off, obviously not interested in talking about herself. 

“So, do you have a girlfriend?” 

“No,” he replied, which was the truth if not the whole truth, before passing the turkey to the man on his left and reaching for his wine glass. At least it was acceptable to be working his way through a bottle of wine now. 

“Did you hear that Margo?” Gladys said across the table. “This dashing young man is single! How can we let that happen?” 

“Goodness, really? We should introduce him to our Stephanie – you know her Laura’s still single?” and just like that they were talking about him like he wasn’t there. 

He closed his eyes, feeling trapped and invisible, and wishing he _was_ invisible. He actually longed for the tingling in his fingers, the pressure building behind his eyes. But of course he stayed put, because the universe hated him. 

“I’m gay,” he said eventually, because listening to them try to match make him with one more ‘well bred’ society girl was going to drive him insane. Unfortunately it didn’t seem to faze them. 

“Oh!” Margo smiled, “well we’ll have to introduce you to Sebastian, then. He’s gay.” 

“Unfortunately dating that indian boy.” 

Grantaire blinked at the casual racism. That didn’t sound very politically correct or appropriate. He opened his mouth to protest, but they were still talking and he couldn’t get a word in edgeways. 

“…covered in tattoos,” Margo was nodding. 

Grantaire closed his mouth and frowned. 

“Just dreadful,” Gladys agreed. 

Inhaling sharply, he decided the best cause of action would be to reach for his wine glass and say nothing. Voicing his concern for those deemed ‘undesirable’ by society was Enjolras’ forte, not his, not to mention that his main priority was to survive this evening, not to start and argument. Which, all things considered, he thought he was doing a pretty good job of. 

He was down almost two bottles of wine by the time they adjourned to the sitting room for the dessert buffet, and was in that blissfully tipsy state where he honestly didn’t mind that Gladys was planning his wedding to Sebastian – once they disposed of Tattoos, naturally - which did set his teeth on edge. He even found himself chipping in with objections to the planned décor, mostly because he was forgetting they weren’t actually talking about Enjolras. 

Ignoring the fact that it wasn’t strictly speaking legal – something with Gladys and Margo were more than happy to gloss over – getting married was something Grantaire was wont to tease Enjolras over. He’d first brought it up after the ‘incident of the arm’, when Enjolras was filling in the endless medical insurance paper work. It had been a joke to start with – an offhand, “wouldn’t this is so much easier if we were married?” – which had accidentally sparked a rant on the injustice of the inequality of marriage laws , begun the preparations for a rally set for early December, and generally been an all-out disaster; because apparently, as Enjolras made clear once the political tirade cooled down, he had no intentions of ever getting married. Grantaire had tried not to feel too disappointed. After all, it wasn’t like they ever could actually get married anyway, but he liked to think that in a world where things were different (ha! Look who was the dreamer now) it might have been on the cards for them. Alas, it was not to be, and Grantaire was doing a pretty good job of drowning that hope, although it didn’t stop him ribbing Enjolras at every opportunity. Because what was better than drawing an angry blush from those porcelain cheeks? 

“It would have to be red,” he smirked, if it was possible for a smirk to be slurred his would have been, as he piled cheesecake onto his bowl of cheery pie. 

Margo nudged him with a smile. “We’re not talking about Sebastian anymore are we?” 

“Who’s Sebastian?” Grantaire asked, dolloping ice cream onto his now well and truly overloaded bowl. 

Just like that, as if she could sense her illusion was about to be destroyed, Alanna swept in and fixed a hand on his elbow to steer him away. He tried to eat a mouthful of cheesecake as she dragged him across the room, head dipping to reach the arm which was being restrained by her hand. When he glanced up he found himself face to face with Enjolras. 

“Hullo,” he grinned with that easy abandon brought on by a little too much wine. “Who’s Sebastian?” 

Enjolras frowned, which only deepened as his mother hissed something into his ear, something Grantaire didn’t catch, and then she was gone, waltzing back into the soirée. 

“You’re drunk.” Enjolras said. 

“Little bit,” Grantaire agreed shovelling dessert into his face. It shouldn’t have been adorable; he was a thirty year old man, swaying slightly on his feet, with cheesecake on his chin. 

“Come on, I think we’ve survived for long enough.” Enjolras took Grantaire’s hand and lead him towards the stairs, ignoring the furious look his mother was throwing him from across the room. 

“Well that wasn’t _so_ bad,” Grantaire shrugged allowing himself to be pulled up the stairs, wondering if it would be worth ruining Enjolras’ opinion of him to lick more cherry pie from the bowl now that his spoon hand was otherwise entangled. 

“Speak for yourself, it was a nightmare. We are never doing thanksgiving here again.” 

They reached the top of the stairs and Grantaire paused to look at him, really look at him. He looked harried and flustered, and tired. His hair was unkempt like he’d been running his hand through his repeatedly and a scowl was etched into his features. Grantaire abandoned the bowl of desert on the trestle table pushed against the wall, and folded Enjolras into an embrace. 

“Alright,” he whispered into Enjolras’ neck. “But you’re irritated so I won’t hold you to that.” He added softly, causing Enjolras to hug back even tighter. 

“Thank you,” he breathed. “and thank you for putting up with them. They were dreadful.” 

Grantaire pulled back and snorted slightly, nudging Enjolras to carry on across the landing towards their room. 

“They’re my in-laws; they’re supposed to be dreadful.” he smirked, before backtracking. “Well, as good as.” He should have stopped there, but he was drunk; though he was often drunk and that wasn’t usually and excuse for his brain-to-mouth filter to malfunction. “If I can’t marry you, I won’t marry anyone.” 

He dropped on the bed with a thump and shook his head. 

“Sorry, that was unforgivably corny. I’m drunk, so my teasing is obviously not working right. I haven’t been properly drunk in a while you know, so this is all your fault really – ” he would have continued rambling incoherently for goodness knows how long if Enjolras hadn’t knelt in front of him to cut him off with a kiss. He tasted like red wine and strawberry cheesecake tinged with that ever present, irremovable trace aroma of books – a musty smell that conjured images of shadowed stacks. Enjolras knelt up into the kiss pressing their foreheads together and hooking his thumbs under Grantaire’s ears. 

“When marriage laws are equal,” he said, breathing the words against Grantaire’s lips, his eyes pressed shut, their foreheads still touching, “then it would be my honour to become your husband, Grantaire.” 

Grantaire’s eyes flew open. He was drunk. He was dreaming. This was a hallucination induced by the trauma of dinner. 

But Enjolras was here, he could feel him, see him. He brought his hands up to cover the ones cupped around his jaw. 

“Okay, that was corny too," he grinned, whilst Enjolras blushed slightly. "Still, best thanksgiving ever,” still grinning he leant forward to kiss Enjolras again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (sorry this is cheesy - I wanted to have something written and posted before Christmas, so it's a little rushed and probably worse off for that. Please forgive the corny ending. Also it's not be been beta'd because I only just finished writing it, so any mistakes are my own).

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr: [trenchcoatsandtimetravel](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com/), or for headcanons and the occasional drabble.
> 
> I've also started tracking [Time Travelling Husbands](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/time-travelling-husbands), which although isn't completely accurate, doesn't seem to be being used for anything else (although I'm welcome to other suggestions!) (fun fact: if you wanted to draw me fan art, or write spin out drabbles of headcanons, I will love you for ever. True story).
> 
> I want to say a huge thank you to everyone who's reading this (and enjoying it?) :)))
> 
> And, as always, my eternal thanks to [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) for continuing to listen to me waffle about my grand plans for this fic, and her help with forming them into actual ideas! xo


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